“It’s this way,” she says. “To the spot I first met Roane. It’s a cemetery.”
My interest is instantly rekindled. “Is it? Of all places to meet…”
“It’s old. Who knows which book it came from?”
“Unless it belongs to this world. Aren’t thereloci?”
She lets out a low roar. “Are therewhatnow?”
“Spots that belong only to this world, grounding it, like crossroads, or… hinges around which the other stories revolve?”
“I wouldn’t know such things, you’d have to speak to?—”
“Roane,” I say under my breath. “Right.”
No matter. I’m excited either way. Cemeteries are places of concentrated history, of names and dates and family trees. Clues. And I’m looking for clues about her, Talton, Roane, Olm… everything. I mean, you never know, right? I might get lucky this time.
If you have a lot of bad luck, then you’re due an amazing stroke of luck. That’s my theory. I can’t wait to reap my rewards because the past few days have stunk to the high heavens.
We trudge down the road leading through the meadows, among white and red flowers and clouds of buzzing insects. They look a lot like bees but they flash like real gold as they fly from blossom to blossom.
Then something else glints in the distance: a herd, every shift and movement sending flashes across my vision.
“Silver horses,” Ardruna says.
“Not very edible, I suppose.”
“Haven’t tried them, to be honest.”
As we approach, I can see why the name. Their pale manes and coats are so long they drag in the tall grass and they have an opalescence to them, like mother-of-pearl. More shell and marble than metal, if you ask me.
“Are they flesh-eaters, too?” I ask.
“I don’t know. They rarely appear.”
“Let me guess: Roane doesn’t know what story they escaped from. What good is a librarian who doesn’t know his books?”
“Do you expect a blacksmith to know how to wield a sword? Do you expect a seamstress to dance at the king’s ball? Why would he know the books?”
True, but… “Because he shouldn’t only be here to fight monsters. He should be able to push them back into the right books. Isn’t that why he’s losing control of this world?”
“You’re determined to dislike him, aren’t you?”
I bite my lip not to reply. We’ve been over that. She’s unhappy with me because I complained about her idol. And I don’t hate Roane. How could I? He’s a solid presence, always rushing to the rescue, making sure I remain alive. There is nobleness to him, for sure.
If I want more, that’s surely not his fault. And if he is a grumpy, apathetic loner most of the time, it’s nothing to do with me.
Even if Ardruna says he’s normally kind, nice, and funny?
Great.Now we’re back to it being my fault.
The silver horses keep grazing as we pass them by. Their manes and long coats look like folded wings.Wingedis a theme in this world, as if the air-magic wielders of the fae race decided to focus on flight when they built it.
But that’s a flight of fancy on my part. Nobody built this world. It’s an amalgam of stories and ideas, spilling from the pages of chained books.
It bothers me that I don’t know the horses’ origin. I remembered the river’s name. Identified the story it originated in. Which horses could these be?
Sifting through the stories I know, a few come to mind. The tale of the waterhorse prince, Nualeg, with his long white hair, beguiling maidens and drowning them until he met his match with the sorceress Elenya. Amre, the steed of the tragic King Arctus, Arhondiel, who carried the fairy queen Ilsa, Malaen the evil one… but these are specific horses, not a herd.
